CJ Scuffins

is here: http://cjscuffins.tumblr.com/

Why am I moving? I've more time to update now and I couldn't resist  the beautiful new platform at tumblr. Perfect for my needs. There's already a week's worth of new content on the site, as well as the pick of this blog. I'll be posting daily, so I hope to see you there!

CJ

A VERY, VERY POPULAR WALK
(Caheradaniel, Ring Of Kerry)


THE FROG WAITER
(Paddy Frog's Rest., Waterville, Co. Kerry)



RAM RAID
(Jill rescues a ram, The Kerry Way, Caherdaniel)







A RIVER (DOESN'T) RUN THROUGH IT
(The Kerry Way, Caherdaniel)


HIGH LIGHTS
("Ireland's only beach bar", Carroll's Cove, Caherdaniel)



HOME IS WHERE THE HEARTH IS
(Carroll's Cove, Caherdaniel)


HOT DOG
(Tiny, mobile home, Caherdaniel)



TWIN ISLANDS
(Caherdaniel, Kerry)


WHY? . . .
(Valencia Island)



. . .  'COS THE VIRGIN MARY WILL PISS ON YOU
(Valencia Island)



ANGEL OR DEVIL?
(Pub in Caherdaniel)



TAKE YOUR TIME WHY DON'T YOU
(Ashtown train station)






MARATHON MAN
(Stuey, with medal and shopping, after The Great Run in Phoenix Park)



LOADSAMONEY!
(NYC "vacation" dosh)



WHERE IS THIS "LOFT" YOU SPEAK OF?
(Richie spots some false advertising on Drumcondra Road)



FIRE REGULATIONS? WHAT FIRE REGULATIONS?
(Ultras display at Riverside Stand, Tolka Park, Rovers vs Bohs)




WHERE'S DICKIE ROCK?!
(Wall of Fame, Temple Bar)



THE BOX
(Making telly in Temple Bar)



UNNATURAL HABITAT
(George's Dock, IFSC)



YAH! SPRING IS HERE!
(View from our balcony throughout April)

TOM had just finished putting up their tent in the festival campsite. He stood back to admire his handiwork. It was old and battered but would have to do. Bit like myself, he thought. Rowena should be here soon and he wanted to put her in a good mood from the get go. She had been on a bit of downer lately, what with the stress of keeping their affair quiet, amongst other things. An upstanding tent might just be the ticket.
  He started to untie the deckchair from his backpack and exhaled a long, noisy sigh though his nostrils when the knot proved trickier than expected. He was feeling the strain, too, but trying to keep a lid on it. He’d heard that the most stressful activity possible is moving house. He wasn't so sure. Try sleeping with your best mate’s girl, thought Tom, it’s no picnic let me tell you. 
  Rowena had told Al last night. Or at least she was supposed to. A phone call to Ro that morning had yielded nothing but a rushed, ‘I can’t talk’. He wondered if she'd changed her mind. Or if Al had changed it for her.
  He tried to distract himself by listening to the snatches of music wafting in on the wind from a distant music stage, but this served only to remind him that the bands had started and Ro was late. Was she on her way or not? he asked himself.
  Without an answer, Tom had one foot in the past, the other in the future. He was stuck, glued to the spot, like a welly in the campsite mud.
  A bunch of country lads were drinking cans of lager and smoking weed in a circle of folding chairs nearby. He remembered himself at their age, out of the estate for a few days with his gang of mates, the excitement of the train journey, the craziness of the campsite, the deep satisfaction of standing in front of your favorite band with your arm around your best buddy...  He quickly dismissed the memory. Enjoy it while you can, boys. 
  Tom’s fatherly indulgence suddenly disappeared. One of the lads had taken out a ball and booted it high into the air, letting out a whoop of joy as he did so. Tom thought, these guys have mistaken me for some yuppie from Castleknock.
-- Here, if you want to play ball, do it away from the tents, will ya? Tom shouted in his most guttural working-class Dublin. He knew the accent scared country people stiff. They were brought up to believe that Dubs were the devil in disguise. No, not in disguise, he corrected himself. The Devil full stop.
 -- Sorry, mister, said the GAA player, who caught the ball on its second bounce.    
  Tom immediately felt guilty. Perhaps, deep down, he was bothered by the young lad’s whoop and kick because age and propriety had long denied him such an explosive release of pent up energy-
  The lad booted the ball into the air again. -- Whoopsy-daisy! he shouted.
  The others laughed.
  They weren't scared, Tom realized. He was just some oul' fella to these kids, incongruous in a young person's playground, an irrelevance. 
  The ball landed on nearby tent, rolling off to the feet of the owner, a dreadlocked student who was drinking wine out of a cardboard box. He laughed gaily and kicked it back.
  Now they’re all at, thought Tom. Presuming Rowena arrived, Tom didn't want their first weekend together ruined by this messing.  This was no ordinary break, afterall. This was the testing ground for their relationship.
  Tom needed to exert some semblance of control quickly. He switched to his office-meeting voice, -- Come on, lads. If you want a kickaround, do it on that patch by the portoloos. 
   -- An awful smell of shite over there, mister, said the GAA player. He then turned to his mates. -- Who wants it? 
  Two of the lads got up and spread out. They hand-passed it to one another over the tent tops while Tom watched helplessly.  
  After a moment, he shook his head. -- All right! If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em! he roared. -- Pass it this way, mate! Give us a shot!
   The GAA player duly punched it his way, hard and high, – There ya go, mister!
   Tom jumped to catch it and missed completely, much to the amusement of the watching lads.
   Tom retrieved the ball, held it out in front of him, ready to give it an almighty boot.  -- Actually, lads, I think you should give it a rest now. He pulled the ball sharply under his arm.
-- Kick it over, said one of the youngfellas;.
-- No, said Tom. -- I’m keeping it for now.
-- Give us our ball back, mister! said the GAA player.
-- No, this isn’t Croke Park! Tom said. He noticed one of the bigger lads getting up. -- Sit down, you!
  The big fella stood up. -- Kick the ball back or I’ll go over there and pull the head off you, he said plainly.
  Tom considered this for a second, then said. -- How much for the ball?
-- What? said the big fella.
-- How much do you want for it?  My missus is arriving any minute now and we might have a game of catch with it.
-- Catch? said the big fella. – With your missus?
The lads looked at each other and laughed.
-- Yeah, said Tom, with as much dignity as he could muster. -- Nothing wrong with catch.
-- It’s not for sale, said the GAA player,
-- I’ll give you thirty euro, and that’s it.
-- Fifty, said the lad.
-- All right, said Tom.
Tom stowed the ball away in the tent. He walked over to the GAA player, taking care to avoid the glare of the big fella, took out his wallet, and handed him the note.
  One of the others, a skinny rake of a fellow, held up a joint amiably, -- Do you want a blow? he said.
-- Nah, you’re all right. Bit early in the day for me. Need to keep me head straight.
-- For catch? smirked the GAA player.
-- Ah no, said the skinny rake, smiling away, -- It’s ‘cos he’s on a promise.
  A couple of the lads snorted at the notion of Tom getting his leg over.
-- That’s it, Tom said with a thin smile, relieved that they were back to feeling indulgent towards him - sorry for him, even.
   Although that most certainly wasn’t ‘it’. The last thing he needed to be when Ro arrived was high. What with her trying so hard to stay off the damn stuff.
   Tom walked back to his tent, stood a deckchair, eased himself into the seat. It had taken quite a physical toll on him, dragging this blasted garden furniture across town to the festival bus, up the bloody stairs, back down the bloody stairs, and then across four fields to this spot, their supposed meeting point, beside the old tree in campsite F. The sleepless night hadn’t helped either.
  He closed his eyes and dozed. Tom wanted to stay that way, half asleep, behind sunstruck eyelids, until she came to him.

(c) copyright CJ Scuffins 2008

Terry sat forward in the hard leather chair. He was going to enjoy this. Not that he planned on showing it, of course. Men of his stature kept everything close to their chest. Showing your true feelings was for amateurs.
  He put on his best frown and shook his head sadly, -- It’s a crying shame, mate, but there just isn't enough money to go around in the drug game, he said, plaintively. -- The whole world’s getting addicted to legal drugs. We're getting murdered by the pharmaceutical companies, y’know? It’s leaving a smaller piece of pie for the rest of us. And that's what it comes down at the end of the day. I can't afford to share my piece.
 The young man in the chair opposite didn’t look up. As soon as Terry had started speaking, he’d dropped his head. It was as if he was blocking out all visual stimuli to better ingest Terry's words. At least, that’s how Terry read it.    
  Big Rob, Terry’s muscle, stood behind him the door, expressionless, except for a tell-tale drip of sweat on his temple. The tension was getting to the big guy, noted Terry. It often did for the minor players, the ones with no control over their own destinies. Terry knew that feeling well. Only for him it was a thing of the past.
   The young man looked up, his mouth fixed in a half-smile. He stared at Terry yet said nothing.
  Terry felt compelled to fill the silence,  -- Sorry and all, but it’s just business.
  He even smiled back, to show there were no hard feelings. Even though there were hard feelings. Ron Jeremy hard.  There was something about the way this guy was looking at him. A cockiness, a sense of privilege or something. God only knows why: Terry held all the cards and he was finished playing Snap with them. He was moving to a bigger table. The Baccarat table. The one James Bond plays at. In fact, Terry could see himself at that casino place in Aungier Street, wearing a tux, a bottle of that foreign beer in one hand – no, that pear cider - and a blonde on the other. A classy blonde, too, not like the usual howlers he used to pick up working the door at Copper Face Jack’s-
  Terry’s reverie was interrupted. -- All right, said the young man. -- I hear what you’re saying. I’ll see you around.
  He stood up, nodded at Terry, and left the room.
 Such was Terry’s power now, all it took was a little chest-beating to send rivals running to the hills.  With a satisfied smile, Terry stood up and turned to watch Big Rob shut the door behind him.
-- That went well, said Terry.
  Big Rob dabbed his forehead with his shirt cuff, said,  -- You think so?
  Terry stretched back in the chair, hands behind his head.  -- No, I don’t think, so, mate, he laughed. -- I know so.
 
  Earlier, Terry had pulled his 4x4 into the hard shoulder after his nose started to bleed. He was prepared for this emergency. He took out a Kleenex from the new package on the dashboard and held it over his nostrils, while he pinched them together. While waiting for the flow to stop he checked his mobile. Two voices messages, one from Big Rob, the other from Elephant.
    Elephant was a smalltime dealer who’d supplied last year’s Carbon Monoxide music festival, where Terry worked as a security guard. He supposed they’d been partners - or an alliance, as they called it on Terry's favorite TV show, Survivor. With this year’s festival only a few weeks away, Elephant wanted to know if Terry was on for the same operation again.
  Terry was on for it again, all right. Only not with Elephant. This year Terry had bills to pay. Big bills. And you don't pay big bills by entering into alliances with people like Elephant. Two bit little toerags. Especially when you could control operations yourself, without the need for any partner.
   No, son, that alliance is well and truly severed.
   Terry rang his pal Big Rob. The man had built this rep on winning bare-knuckle boxing matches with drunks outside the bars and clubs where he worked. But underneath the gruff exterior, Big Rob was a proper gent. Just the kind of man Terry needed. Handy in a ruck but deferential to his betters.
  Terry had been forced to retire from the bouncing game himself due to injury. A loud-mouthed chartered accountant’s injury. Terry had been forced to subdue him by ramming his head into a dancefloor pillar. Unfortunately for Terry, the impact gave the fella some sort of brain condition which, according to his barrister, caused him flash his genitals at woman joggers in the Phoenix Park. A likely story, thought Terry. The judge thought differently. Terry found himself banned him from ever working doors in the city again.
   Thank God for security companies, thought Terry.
  When Big Rob picked up, Terry asked how his old mate was. He worried about him working the doorways at night. The new breed of troublemakers were a vicious lot.
  -- Sorry, Tez, mate, Big Rob replied. -- Your voice sounds all squeaky or something-
   Terry winced. He hated embarrassing himself in front of anybody, least of all Big Rob. He stopped pressing so hard on his nose with the tissue. -- Must be the connection, mate. Can you hear me now?
  -- Crystal, mate, chuckled Big Rob. -- You sounded like Mickey Mouse for a minute.
 Terry hated that the big guy was laughing at him. He felt the anger surge in his chest, -- If there was one thing I’m not, mate, it’s Mickey Mouse!
-- ‘Course not, mate, said Big Rob, quickly picking up on Terry’s mood swing. -- I only said that ‘cause of the phone-
 Terry cut across him, eager to regain control of the conversation, and Big Rob, -- You took your time getting back to me, didn’t you? 
-- Apologies, Tez, said Big Rob. -- I was working a job in the Isle of Man.
-- Crowd control at the TT races? sniffed Terry.
-- Rather not say over the phone, mate, replied Big Rob.
-- Say no more, mate, said Terry, gutted to learn that his music festival gig wasn’t Big Rob’s only extra-curricular earner of the summer. 
   Terry masked his disappointment in a business-like tone, -- You’ll have all the usual duties, explained Terry. -- Keeping an eye on the lads, making sure there’s no thieving of stock, and so on. Cracking heads if needs be.
  Terry laughed harshly at the last part, but Big Rob didn’t join in. He said, all serious-like, -- Tell us, mate, is that Elephant bloke involved this year?
-- Nah, don’t need the little fruit, mate, said Terry. -- Just me and you.
Big Rob said, -- I’m only asking because, if you’re out a partner, I have some dough I’ve been keeping over, mate…
  Terry made a face at the phone. -- Sorry, mate, I’ve already paid the baker.
-- You what? said Big Rob.
-- You know, for the, uh, icing cake.
-- Right, said Big Rob, copping on, -- Done deal is it, mate?
-- Yeah, mate. If only you’d got back to be earlier, maybe I could have cut you a piece.
-- Fair enough, said Big Rob, chuckling now, -- Can’t blame a boy for trying.
-- Not at all, smiled Terry. -- You’re a businessman like myself. I respect that. Maybe next time, eh? Right now, we need to meet up to discuss the ins and outs of this arrangement, all right? Usual time, usual place.
-- Seeya there, mate, said Big Rob.
-- All right, mate, said Terry.
  Terry clicked off the phone, shook his head in genuine pity at Big Rob’s clumsy attempt to join the big table. Somebody’s seriously overreaching themselves, there. A henchman, Big Rob, that’s what you are, what you’ll always be. Know your place, mate, thought Terry, and you’ll go a long way with me. 
    Terry checked his tissue, the blood had stopped. Only a little one this time, Terry thought. Thank Christ for that.
  Terry felt in need of an energy boost after losing blood. He reached across to the glove compartment, stuck a finger into the bag of white powder, and rubbed it into his gums. Good stuff, thought Terry, best he’d had in years. He’d give the okay to the supplier when he got to the end of this sample baggy. Who said you shouldn' t mix business and pleasure? chuckled Terry, pulling his 4x4 back out onto the motorway.
 
That night, Terry drove into the small car park of Cabra Public Library, parking right next to the Honda Civic belonging to Big Rob, who liked to make a big show of being early for everything. 
  Terry was proud of his choice of meeting place. Why shell out for a hotel room, which could be wired up anyway, when a library was much more innocuous? Sherlock Holmes himself wouldn’t suspect anyone of planning a drug operation at the library. And you were practically invisible there. Nobody hung around a library except poor foreign bastards making CVs for cleaning jobs, students copying each other’s homework, and old fogies reading the papers. Everybody’s hushed, head down, stuck into their reading material.
  The only potential stumbling block was not being allowed to talk. Terry had solved that one by booking one of the soundproof listening rooms. Genius.
  Big Rob was standing inside the door, browsing the local events stand. -- Thought I’d get here nice and early, mate.
  -- Good on you, mate, Terry smiled before leading him through the door marked Audio Room 01.
  Sitting at one of the CD booths was a skinny guy in a hoody.
-- Hey, bud, this room’s taken! shouted Terry.
The guy turning around. Terry immediately recognized him as Elephant, despite his big flapping ears being hidden under the hood.
  Elephant smiled, -- Fancy meeting you here, Terry.
  Terry turned to Big Rob with a look of disbelief, -- You told him we’d be here?
  Big Rob said, -- He said he couldn’t get hold of you. Said he had a big offer.
  Terry was gobsmacked at his idiocy, -- But I already told you- He stopped short.
  Big Rob held his hands up, -- I don’t know what’s happening. It’s between you two.
  Terry calmed himself, looked at Elephant.  -- This is a private meeting. What do you want?
  Elephant stood up, -- Big Rob tells me you’re not going with a partner at the festival. You’re flying solo.
   Terry eased himself into the chair from the next booth along, and turned to face Elephant, -- So?
Elephant said, -- I’m going to offer you the chance of a rethink.
Terry laughed, -- You’ll offer me?
-- That’s right, said Elephant pleasantly.
  He couldn't believe this guy. High on his own supply or what?
  Terry sniffled, rubbed his nose. Then he sat  forward on the chair and explained to Elephant why a partner was the last thing he needed.
 
  When Elephant finally left the airless listening room, Big Rob breathed a sigh of relief.
  He wanted to get this over and done with. He didn’t like conducting business in such a neutral zone. Made him nervous. A civilian could walk in at any minute. He preferred the gladiatorial arena of a nightclub doorstep. What kind of a nutjob does this sort of thing in a library, anyway? Coke was rotting his old mate’s brain.
 After Terry had stopped congratulating himself, Big Rob said, -- You should have heard him out, Tez, mate.
-- What? A nobody like him? I don’t think so, mate, said Terry.
It had been a long time since he heard anybody talk so disrespectfully about Elephant.  -- He’s done well for himself this past year, or haven’t you heard? You should lay off the white stuff, Tez, mate, and keep your ear to the grindstone. This is supposed to be your business.
  Big Rob could see that Terry didn’t like that. -- Watcha mean, mate? growled Terry. -- What’s this toerag done that I haven’t, eh?
-- The Isle of Man, for starters. Controls everything coming in from this side of the Irish Sea.
  Terry turned around to question Big Rob, -- The Isle of Ma-?
  Before he could finish his sentence, Big Rob grabbed Terry by the scruff of the neck, dragged him up off the chair and smacked his face into opposing wall.
  Terry’s nose burst open, blood splattering over a child's painting of a house. -- What you doing, mate! Terry screamed.
  -- Sorry, mate, said Big Rob, as he planted Terry’s head against the wall once more, this time letting go and allowing to Terry fall backwards onto the hard carpet floor.
  Terry twisted his head towards the door, -- Help us!
-- Shout all you want, said Big Rob matter-of-factly, -- Nobody can hear you in a soundproof room.
  Panic set in across Terry's eyes, and he made a desperate crawl for the exit.
  Sad that it should come to this, thought Big Rob. He booted Terry hard in the chest, the force of which flipped him over on his back, and caused the blood to flow down his throat.
    Big Rob knelt down, spoke slowly and softly. --Tez, mate, since you won't listen to Elephant, it falls on me to explain the new working arrangements for the music festival. Okay?
  Terry nodded quickly.
Big Rob continued, -- You’ll handle the boys on the ground, get them in, watch for thieving, et cetera, I’ll hang around the perimeter co-coordinating things, liaising between you and Elephant outside. How’s that sound?
  Terry spit blood bitterly over Big Rob’s Caterpillar boots.
  Big Rob jammed a boot onto Terry’s throat and held it there until he saw the anger drain from his eyes.
-- You and me . . . mate, murmured Terry.
-- Nah, there is no you and me, said Big Rob. -- Not anymore. I'm with Elephant now.
  He smiled but left his foot were it was. He had to get the message across that he and his new partner were not to be messed with.
 -- Sorry, nothing personal, mate, said Big Rob.
 
(c) copyright CJ Scuffins 2008

Rome: He's Down There Somewhere

One of the reasons I enjoy following a League of Ireland team is that fans are a lot closer the inner workings of the club. And I love to know what's going on behind the scenes, even if I'm the one being adversely affected...

My Shamrock Rovers season ticket has been taking its time to arrive. When I rang the club shop, I was given the following, rather original, excuse: "Yeah, sorry about that. The printer went to Rome on Tuesday and hasn't been heard from since."

Sure beats "there's been a postal delay".

...

Note:  My play deadline is next week. Afterwards I'll be back to more regular posting. Thanks for sticking with the blog through the lean times!

Dear Reader(s),
Lest you think I have abandoned you, I haven't. It's just that, for a lazy sod like me, this month is an unusually busy one. Every spare mo' is being taken up writing the latest draft of my upcoming play. Also,  medial science having failed me thus far, I've been working on homemade antidotes to my strange gallstone problem. A stomach condition normally associated with pregnant women, the elderly, and incestuous Native American tribes. Latest antidote:



Just to let you know, though, I will be posting more regularly again by the end of the month. Included will be  those short stories I threatened.  So, like the owners of the fabulously-named ladies wig shop on Talbot Street, I urge you...

Due to a bad toothache, Jill's Da visited the dentist for the first time since Eamon De Valera was Taoiseach.

Me: How did he get on?
Jill: He got two fillings and a polishing.  My Ma said he's got the most beautiful set of teeth she's ever seen.
Me: Do you think she's biased at all?
Jill: Probably. But he used to have tan colour teeth so it's a big deal for her.
Me: I thought he hated dentists.
Jill: Yeah. But he loves this one.
Me: Why?
Jill: I dunno. Must have given him a lollipop.


Jill's Da, pre dentist


Jill's Da, post dentist

...

PS. New short stories coming next week. You have been warned...

When the editors at Mog comissioned a piece from Jill and myself, I simply played some new music and taped her, uh, highly idosyncratic reaction. Sometimes the lazy ideas are the best...

Magnetic Fields - Distortion (heading links lead to myspace)

Me: Well?

Jill: A very morbid voice. But I'm sure there's market for that among some people.

Me: What type of people?

J: Australians.

Me: But...Australians are happy go lucky, aren’t they?

J: No, they’re not. What's that guy's name? Nick Cage?

Me: Nick Cave?

J: Yeah, Nick Cave. People who like his morbid singing will like this morbid singing.

Me: What about the music?

J: It’s like the Mama and the Papas, except it’s very depressing. Look, the best songs in life make you feel something instantly. With others you have to stretch to feel an emotion while listening to it.

Me: How far do you have to stretch to feel an emotion with Magnetic Fields?

J: The moon.

Me: I see.

J: Music can transport you somewhere else. I don't want to be transported into the graveyard.

Me: What would you say if I told you that the singer [Stephin Merrit] is considered quite the wit?

J: The what?

Me: The wit.

J: I thought you said the twit.

Muscles – Guns, Babes, Lemonade

Me: This guy is said to be the new Mike Skinner [of The Streets]. What do you think?

J: It’s like a jumble sale. A load of old shite cobbled together and sold back to you. I've heard all those sounds, those little snippets of songs before, only in…proper songs. They've just mashed them all together here. It's a real Mickey Mouse album.

Me: So you don’t like Muscles, then.

J: Is that his name?! Muscles?! Is he a bouncer or something?

Me: He could be.

J: Well, if that's the type of music he's making, it must be because he’s only hearing little bits of songs every time the club door swings open.

Me: He's Australian, too.

J: There ya go!

Yeasayer - All Hours Cymbals

J: Where are that band from?

Me: Brooklyn, New York.

J: Oh, I thought they were from Australia.

Me: What does an Australian band sound like?

J: Like Midnight Oil. Tuneless. I've never heard a good Australian band except for Crowded House.

Me: Forget about Australians for a minute. What do you think of this band?

J: I couldn't hear what he was saying. It could have been political, about like Rwanda or China or something. In fact, I could see a politician waving to his supporters during this music. Politicians always pick shit songs, though, don't they? It's just... bombastic. It's television program music. It’s Miami Vice music. Pamela Anderson running down the beach trying to save somebody music. Sucky music.

Me: [My friend] Richie wanted to go to England to see this band for his birthday.

J: He’ll be going on his own!

Me: They’re playing here in May, though. So we’re going to that instead.

J: Your funeral!

Me: Anything else to say? About the music, that is?

J: It’s an album of hippy clichés. ‘Let's get back to the earth, let's use aboriginal music, let's find dwarfs and put them in.’

Me: Aboriginal? There’s an Australian theme developing here…

J: I like Australian people, it's just most of their music is… boring.

Me: But Yeasayer are not even Australian! They’re from Brooklyn in New York!!

J: I know, but they're singing like Australians! I bet they visited Australia for a while!!

Me: Let’s move on! What about this [next] song?

J: Ugh. They're so straight. So consumed in their own hippyness, no true emotions coming out, fabricated, false smiles, ‘we're all perfect and normal and everyone lese is the problem’ Happy go lucky music , ‘we are the world, we are the children!’

Me: You’re going off on a mad one now.

J: Well, when are we reviewing the good stuff? This is 80s crap. Like something off the soundtrack for Lost Boys.

Me: Jesus. Listen to the content. In [the song] 2080, the singer has problems with the world...

J: What about the problems with himself? Look at your-fucking-self first, mate! You're probably the problem!

Cat Power - Jukebox

Me: Okay, I love this album. I think it's phenomenal. I know you don't like it...

J: No, her voice is getting better each time I hear it.

Me: Her voice? Or your ears?

J: Her voice.

Me: But it’s the same voice.

J: Look, I admit it, okay -- I thought she was just making a fucking fool of herself!

Me: What do you mean?

J: She was going on and on about her drink problem in interviews, right? I thought, this woman with the drink problem is going to make a loopy fool out of herself with an album of covers.

Me: Why?!

J: Because it’s like, ‘oooh I have a drink problem, I can sing anything I want and get away with it. If I make a fool of myself, sure I was a drunkard anyway.’

Me: Fucking hell.

J: Seriously! People use their illnesses as crutches. Pete Doherty can say, 'I was off me head on heroin when I sang that shit song!' But no, Cat proved me wrong. She won't have to say that.

Juno - Movie Soundtrack

J (sings along to Antsy Pants): ‘I am a vampire, I am a vampire!’

Me: So you like this album?

J: Great film, great album.

Mgmt – Oracular Spectacular

Me: I was slagging this album off recently. But you think it’s good…

J: It’s the opposite to Cat Power. It’s actually got worse the more I heard it. It’s just another 60s pastiche album. I give it 4 our of ten.

Me: Why 4?

J: I like track 4.

Adele – 19

J: I love her voice. Even though it hasn't been trained. But only 3 songs are good.

Me: Do you feel guilty for wasting 11 of my emusic credits on this album?

J: No, I don't! I was disappointed in the album, yeah. But I still listen to the good tracks. In my car. I sing along to them in traffic.

Me: What about other drivers looking at you?

J: Oh, I don't give a shit. I'm used to it. Better me singing than some bloke picking his nose.

...

And the winner is... Cat Power.

Listen to a track from the mucho recommended covers album Jukebox @ My Mog

And here's Cat Power's astonishing good and, indeed, highly idosyncratic performance of 'New York'  on Later with Jools Holland:

...he likes getting his picture taken with famous people.

The Teenager is studying Romeo and Juliet for her Junior Cert. Over the weekend our resident Shakespearian actress Jill explained to her the meaning of  Romeo's speech, "But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?/It is the East, and Juliet is the sun!/Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon..."

Jill: He sees Juliet in the balcony and is struck by her beauty. He says she is like the sun and completely outshines the pale moon, which must be envious of her. Isn't that a beautiful thing to say?
The Teen:  What a sap.

LCD Soundsystem, aka the talented New York dance-rock producer James Murphy, recently re-released the exercise mix '45:33'  which was originally recorded for Nike in 2006. Why did Murphy, the Patron Saint of liberal hipsters, license his music to a corporation with such an appalling workers' rights record? And how did it work out for him? Why, let's find out...
 

Nike: North American Scum

Musicians who sell their work to corporations are like . . . HDTV. High-definition is great if you’re watching a good movie. But if the movie sucks, then it sucks in double linear resolution. It sucks vividly.

In the same way, good musicians, like Feist, can enhance their standing with a corporate tie-in, whereas mediocre artists such as Moby only serve to clarify how much of a grave-robbing bible-bashing slaphead they actually are. Although, Feist is now trying to have her cake and eat it. She’s saying she didn’t realize how much “exposure” her 1234 video would receive when she sold her music to that little known Mom’n’Pop store, Apple, Inc.

At least Moby’s excuse was honest. He admitted that he licensed every song from his gospel-sampling Play album to advertisers in an effort to break into the mainstream. The fact that he couldn’t please crowds with his own compositions before, or since, alas suggests that he’s an overambitious huckster whose real talent is for making money.

Just Do It, Or Else

Which brings me to Phil Knight, co-founder and former CEO of Nike, Inc. By pure chance I caught a CNBC documentary this week about the evil no-values corporation. In interview, Knight wore creepy wraparound shades to hide his goggle-eyes. The fat billionaire guffawed loudly after relaying how he paid a measly 30 bucks to a female graphic designer to come up with the Swoosh logo. Later, he spoke at his regret that Nike (not Knight himself, of course) had become synonymous with exploiting workers. Hey, it was there right at the company’s inception, you stalk-eyed shyster.

Of course, as an ageing hipster, it’s my solemn duty to detest Knight and his company with every breath in my slowly deteriorating body. Until, that is, they release a product that helps me to improve said body. So far they’ve done it twice. The first time was a pedometer that allows me to time the distance of my running, which I placed under of the laces of my wonderful Asics running shoes.

The second is LCD Soundsystem’s exercise mix for Nike, 45:33. An ageing hipster himself -- perhaps the king of ‘em -- James Murphy seems an odd choice for this enterprise. If I had to choose an artist to partner up with Nike, I’d pick R. Kelly. One, both Nike and Kelly are perennially being accused of doing disgusting things to children. Two, Kelly’s “I Believe I Can Fly” is a perfect fit for the marketing of the Nike Air range, which convinces millions of concave-chested idiots that they’re walking on air rather than some plastic shoe padding.

Phil Knight: Frog-eyed CEO

Happily, as one might expect from dance music’s funniest writer, Murphy doesn’t totally toe the company line. The first words on the mix are "Shame On You". A sly dig at Nike’s appalling worker rights record in Asia? I certainly hope so. That’s during the slinky funky piece of business known as Part II, where Murphy stretches his vocals a little further than usual with his version of a 70s funk singer.

Indeed, Murphy treated the project as a chance to experiment. He credits the mix as the beginning of a creative purple patch which led to his 2007 masterpiece Sound of Silver. Proof of which is the appearance in Part III of the pre-lyric version of the storming Someone Great, a beautiful piece of music even divorced from Murphy’s bittersweet lines.

45:33 finishes with a organ-led ambient piece meant for warming down to; that is, if you actually listen while jogging. Personally, I’ve jogged to it twice. However I’ve listened to it dozens more times doing all manner of other activities, including sitting at my desk, taking the train, walking in the park, and playing the X-Box. I have a sneaking suspicion too that this euphoric music would be great to do the nasty to. Sadly, in my case, the 45 minute plus time frame renders the point moot.

Of course, music lovers don’t need an exercise mix made by a corporation. We use mixes made by ourselves or fellow musos. Plus, we don’t need a Nike mix to get our blood pumping. All we have to do is open the Nike page on knowmore.org [link].

If we play a mix, will they work faster?

If after reading knowmore.org, you might feel that Murphy is an irresponsible sellout - a reasonable assumption given the nature of the evidence against Nike.

Consider, though, how another electronic artist deals with The Man. Techno "activist" Alex Empire likes to tell the tale of how he took Phonogram Records for a ride during the dance music explosion in Britain in the early 90s. His band Atari Teenage Riot signed for a large unrecoupable advance, then sabotaged the recording process. They started their own label with the money. On hearing this, I remember thinking, yes, Alex, the world would be a much better place with dishonorable people like you at helm.

I prefer Murphy’s healthier attitude towards corporate work. Treat it as your own, don’t compromise the music itself, pay some bills, and everyone’s happy. Well, almost everyone. Nike’s workout audience, Murphy reports, found the music “horrible”! In fact, LCD Soundsystem seem to have done a lot better out of the deal than Nike. Creatively and in a business sense. Murphy demanded that the rights of 45:33 transferred back to his label DFA after one year. So, the Devil doesn’t have all the best tunes.

...

POSTSCRIPT: I wrote this post for Mog last Thursday. On Saturday Jill went into town to buy herself a new pair of runners. Guess what she got? Nike Air Max. Unbe-fucking-lievable.



Listen to a full track from 45:33 @ My Mog

Linda sat hunched over her breakfast in the staff canteen. Alone, thank God. Normally she'd be surrounded by co-workers yapping on about kids or holidays. She pitied them, she really did. 
  She checked her watch, more out of habit than necessity. She knew in her bones it was 5am on the dot. A while yet before anybody else comes in. A good while yet, she chuckled, seeing as it was Saturday morning.
  Linda sucked the last drop out of her apple juice and dumped it into the salad bowl. 
  At the ground floor lifts was a framed poster of employee of the month, Paula Fecking Dempsey. Well, the Dempsey one won’t know what hit her on Monday morning, thought Linda. My invoice tray would be empty, hers full. See how she likes it. 
  Down the hall from the lifts, a Pakistani security guard was at his desk in the front office. He stared at his CCTV monitor. Suddenly he looked up and beckoned Linda towards him. She turned away, pretending not to see him.
  If he thinks I'm clearing away that breakfast, he's got another thing coming, she thought. I'm already doing the work of six or seven people, I'm not being the cleaning lady as well. 
  The security guard left his desk and strode towards her.
  Hurry up, hurry up, she silently implored the lift.
-- Miss?  said the guard.
Come on! Linda roared inside her head.
  The guard stood directly in front of her, opened his mouth to speak-- 
She saw the lift door ping open and charged in shoulder first.
  She stabbed the button for floor six and the doors slide shut in the guard’s face. He wouldn't dare follow her, Linda thought. Those guys didn't feel comfortable on the upper floors, among the real employees. 
  Linda fixed her hair in the mirror. The first thing she'd do is send an email to Mr. Lowry, ccing the entire staff. Letting everybody know that the accounts system is down, or something like that. It didn’t matter, so long as Lowry saw the time and date of the mail. She wasn’t coming in at this hour for the good of her health. It was more important than that, she thought. It was for her career.  
  She looked at her watch. She would be at her desk at 5.07am. Perfect.

  The security guard, Rizwan, returned to the front office, picked up the telephone and rang his wife. He said, -- I saw the ghost.
-- What? his wife replied.
-- The woman. The one Ali saw. The one who died.
There was silence at the other end.
-- Hello? Rizwan said.
-- What did she look like?

(c) copyright  CJ Scuffins 2008

... but the new Ireland manager sure makes up for it with his press conferences.

PS. Look out for Trap's Jake Stevens-style whistle -- all he's missing is the newspaper.

Currently Eating - An Italian Chicken Sandwich

I wrote a weekly football column for the Daily Mirror in London for two years in the late 90s. The column was basically a bunch of topical gags designed to stick the boot into the new breed of highly-privileged footballer. 

I thoroughly enjoyed writing it, but sometimes the boot was on the other foot. Once I was introduced to a bloke in an inner city pub as the writer of "those football jokes". He looked genuinely awe-struck and said, "But they're shite."

So, a few questions:

1) What possessed those fountains of online knowledge Questia and Encylopedia to digitalise my Daily Mirror football column?
2) Who in their right mind would buy decade-old topical football jokes?
3) Where are my royalities?!

Gary switched on the television news one evening to discover that his drug dealer, whom he knew as Willy Wonka, had been shot to death outside a pub on the north side of the city.  
-- What will I do for pills now?, he asked Sandra over dinner.
-- Give them up, she answered.
-- Seriously, he said.
Sandra shook her fork at him. -- I am serious, Gary. For your own good, you should go back on the drink.
-- I know you mean well, but no. I’m a moody fecker on booze.
-- You’re a moody fecker on those pills, too. Only it’s a couple of days later, when you’ve no what’s-it-called left in your body. Endorphins.
He scoffed. -- Serotonin. And that’s just in the office, and with you. There’s no chance of me getting into a fight, like with the drink.
Sandra snorted. -- I wouldn’t be so sure. I bet a few of your workmates would like to hit you a belt sometimes. I know I do.
-- No need for that, said Gary in a hurt voice. -- A person shouldn’t be victimized for their tipple.
-- Tipple?, she stared in disbelief. -- That lovely little tipple is giving you permanent brain damage.
-- Nothing wrong with my brain, he said indignantly. -- My brain is grand.
-- Yeah. Forgetting people’s names and everything, you are.
-- Your friends’ names, Gary shrugged.
-- They’re still people with names! Jesus. I’m surprised you can remember your own name. Who knows what you’ll be in ten years? Brain dead.
-- With a pristine liver.
-- What use will that be if you’re brain dead?! They’re a dangerous drug, Gary! 
-- Don’t mind that propaganda. Nobody dies from taking pills, they die from drinking too much water. There’s no brain damage, either. That’s just malicious rumours put about by the energy drink and alcopop companies to try win back some of their market share.
Sandra screwed up her face. -- What...market share?
-- Of kids.
-- Now that’s fecking brain dead!
-- Check Wikipedia if you don’t believe me!
-- You believe Wikipedia?!
-- I believe it more than I believe a drinks company! The biggest drug dealers on the planet!
She picked up her plate and left the table. He heard her dump the leftovers in the bin, and clank the plate into the dishwasher.
Gary breathed in deeply, composed himself. -- We shouldn’t be fighting, he shouted into her. -- A man died tonight.
-- He won’t be the only one, she muttered from the kitchen.
-- What did you say?
She walked back to the dining table.
-- Nothing.
Gary sighed. -- Willy Wonka… I mean, Trevor was a good guy.
Sandra raised an eyebrow.
-- Well…a good dealer, anyway, he said, exasperated. -- He’ll be hard to replace.
Sandra grabbed his plate, shot into the kitchen, and dumped its contents into the bin.
He slammed down his fork. -- I'm not finished with that either!

The User copyright (c) CJ Scuffins 2008

Ladies Walking 
(O'Connell St.)


Midnight Stroll
(O'Connell St)


Shootout In The Shadows
(The Brother, Christmas Day)


Stop Santa
(Navan Road)


Unnatural Light
(Docklands)


What Is It?
(The Nephew, Christmas Day)


Bubble Bath
(Dame St.)


Tack
(Grafton Street)


Live Fussball
(Outside office, IFSC)


NYE
(Our house)


Jack & Jill
(Jill and her bedroom mural for nephew Jack)


The End Of The Rainbow?
(Navan Rd.)

Electro popsters Hot Chip return with their third LP, Made in The Dark. For Fans of: Pet Shop Boys, New Order, Booka Shade, Royskopp, Prince (and Appollonia)

MP3 bloggers the world over believe Hot Chip to be pretty much unfuckwitable.

The UK dance act have never left the web’s collective unconscious since the release of The Warning in 2006. They enhanced their rep with energetic live shows, a mix CD for the DJ Kicks series, and remix work for such luminaries as Queens of the Stone Age and Matthew Dear.

Yet in the interest of fairness and balance, and because your reviewer is a contrary bastard, I've decided to fuck with them anyway.

If you’re new to Hot Chip, and a skeptical sort — as you’ve every right to be, given the hyperbole — you might have one big question to ask after listening to newly-minted third LP, Made in the Dark. Allow me to answer it for you in advance. That sound of nails scraping across a blackboard? That’s the lead singer’s voice.

Despite apparently being named for a soap queen, Alexis Taylor is not a natural performer. His hero is Prince but that tonelessness is more reminiscent of The Purple One’s very short-lived collaborator, Apollonia. At least Apollonia had a bootylicious body for Prince to fall back on in the studio. How’s Taylor getting away with his vocals? By having a fairly intelligent grasp of their limitations, I think. He hams up his charming middle-class English accent, croons lovelorn electro ballads in which his faltering falsetto enhances the mood of fragility, and writes the kind of catchy choruses that we’re too busy barking along to ourselves to notice that he’s only marginally better at singing than one William A. Shatner. Clever, huh?

Not every Hot Chip song suits Taylor's voice, however. On album opener "Out at the Pictures," he sounds thin, reedy, and faux-tough next to the wild, clanging big-beat instrumentation. It’s an unintentional and jarring contrast. Likewise, the joyful soundscape of "One Pure Thought" splices Bernard Sumner-ish guitar riffery with bubbling synths, yet Taylor is staccato, emotionless, robotic — and not in a successful Rihanna way. During such moments, it’s easy to see why Hot Chip remixers regularly reduce his vocals to a short sample. One can argue that Taylor has a good enough voice for Hot Chip’s purposes ... but less is definitely more on their potential floor stompers.

Yet exactly how many booty shakers are on the album? Early reports mentioned that the young folks probably won’t much like the amount of slow synthy soul on this record. But you know what I say? Fuck the young folks!

'Cos here the worm (that is, your slithery reviewer) must turn. Hot Chip can move the body with their beats, the mind with their smarts ... and are now making inroads on the heart. An undeniably hard thing to do in any art form; harder still when the tools you have are mostly synthetic.

"We’re Looking for a Lot of Love" renders backlashery ludicrous. It’s a beautiful, funereal lament to lost love, complete with a hymnal organ. The lyric from Taylor and Joe Goddard contains the highly poetic musical metaphor, “Every time that we walk the streets/ I try my best to keep up with the beat/ You're everything that I never could keep/ I hear the sound and it starts to repeat.” These boys can write.

On the title track, Taylor’s narrator is feeling sensitive, delicate, a little older than he’d like. “Since we fell apart I've been nothing but blue/ Longing for a night-time to bring back my youth," he intones plaintively. Perhaps it’s true that young folks won’t get it ... yet.

In" Wrestling," the sport serves as an analogy for a love affair. This might seem lame, especially coming from newly wed Taylor, but the band make it work with a mixture of surprising twists and turns in the music — and the lyrics. Listing one of the wrestling moves as a “Willie Nelson," and then repeating the joke in deadpan fashion, is endearingly amusing.

Lead single "Ready for the Floor" was apparently wanted by pop star Kylie Minogue. This would have deprived Dark of its most danceable song, the "Over and Over" of the album. It’s a veritable Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory of sweet sounds. Darting synths, bouncing bassline, and the politest Oompah Loompah ever: “hoping, by chance, you might take this dance."

Album highlight "Don’t Dance" is a genre-defying journey into Hot Chip’s paranoia-filled heart of darkness. It begins with a Super Mario stylee and then marches off in a nu-rave direction, before invoking a particularly dexterous light-sabre clash (is there any other kind?). That’s just the first couple of minutes. Over the top we're asked the heavy rhetorical question, “Is this freedom?” Taylor’s little boy lost chimes in with “love has left/ What is left is an aching fear ... who can see/ Is there an exit here?” The track resolves itself ecstatically into a militant hardcore drumfuck. All you can do is salute. Existential video game space opera acid house electronica has never sounded so good.

Hot Chip hit on a winning formula with The Warning. Wisely they decided not to mess with it. So they’ve once more given us several four-to-the-floor-style dance-floor stompers, a handful of slowies for the oldies, as well as a couple of tries at the more experimental genre that insecurely calls itself Intelligent Dance Music. Simply put, if you enjoyed The Warning, you’ll enjoy Made in the Dark.

And if you haven’t heard The Warning ... not to worry, I'll make you a nice cup of cocoa in a minute, granddad.

...

Made In The Dark (Astralwerks) - released Feb 4 '08
Hear tracks @ My Mog

A colleague was having trouble getting started on a piece of writing. I offered some advice.

"Sometimes I'll use a tape recorder to get over the fear of the blank page."
"Hmm. What about the fear of hearing your own voice?"